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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481770">The Subtleties of Potions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account'>orphan_account</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>#It's one of those, Cautious Harry, Don't Judge Me, Dumbledore is unintentionally a moron but I don't consider this bashing, Emotionally Scarred, Everyone has a reason, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I am not sure what I am doing, M/M, Manipulative Harry Potter, People are not irrationally sadistic and stupid, Smart Harry Potter, Wrong Boy-Who-Lived (Harry Potter), no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 01:58:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,222</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A result of laced lemon drops, Dumbledore mistakes Harry Potter for a squib, and sends him to live as a muggle. Years later, after Voldemort reveals to the Wizarding public Charles Potter is not the prophesied Chosen One, the two factions battle it out in a race to locate the boy first. An ocean away, a green eyed thief summons a bright red flame from thin air on a cold winters night, unaware of his legacy. Is the Light as corrupted as they seem? Is the Dark truly so evil?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>156</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A New Path</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dumbledore makes a mistake.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Magick, as is its nature, is a delicate natural process that few understand. Mere thousands can lay claim to its intricacies, able to perform mighty feats with the flick of a wrist. It lies dormant in the most humble forms, nestled deep within the heart of the earth. Flowing through the leaves of dead trees, collecting in ingredients gathered years ago.<br/>
Over time, as technology developed, we learned to harness this latent store of magick, bottling up power and glory. Great wizards rose and fell, few possessing substantial inherent magick stores but, with a chanted rhythm and a mysterious liquid, they could conquer thousands. </p><p>     As we evolved, coming to value peace over strength, the value of the art has been lost, reduced to petty pranks and trifles. Though the craft is weaker than ever before, the potency of a potion never fades. </p><p>     The appeal of a potion (provided it's done correctly) is that its effects linger. Though all the ingredients are natural, magick is inherently chaotic. Each reaction is carefully measured and recorded to ensure maximum damage reduction, a type of controlled experimentation that clashes with discord of magick. When ingested, this collision of principals often splinters the potion, leaving significant portions behind in the bloodstream as it travels to the brain. </p><p>     Most magi confuse the soul for the container of your magick instead--while that is the case for a select few--for most, it is located closer to the tip of your spinal cord. When the potion reaches your core, it twists and mutilates the surrounding tissue, subconsciously directing your magick to your surrounding environment. It is this that whispers to your magick, subtly directing it with utmost precision. Essentially, potions are scarcely almighty concoctions, and more instructions unlocking your latent potential. </p><p>     Your core resists this infiltration and painstakingly rips the solution apart, failing to reach the little deposits it made in the bloodstream just a few feet away. This abrupt dissolution is dangerous however, it exhausts the magical core, the substance being so integrated at points that the magick resorts to attacking itself. This is why potion masters frequently include additives in their recipes, ensuring that the magick has an easier time dissolving it. Frequently, inexperienced potioneers try to avoid these additions to save time and money, often resulting in horrific disfigurements. </p><p>     Dumbledore knew all this, of course--he was a widely acclaimed prodigy in many subjects after all. While he did endeavor to educate himself in potioneering, it had never captured him like the more whimsical subjects relating to charms and transfiguration. He only studied so far as to gain an intermediate understanding of the subject branching off as soon as he was sure he wouldn't accidentally blow off a limb. This gap in his considerable education would cost him in the future, eventually leading to the whole Chosen One mix up in the first place. </p><p>     You see, what Dumbledore neglected to learn was that those splintered potion bits, floating around the body, continue to have an effect months after initial ingestion. Seeing as the pieces were not powerful enough to search out your core on their own, they float around until your magick reserves can find and eliminate them. While they can't move, they still have a weak influence over your magick long after the initial wave has passed. </p><p>     Developed over years of stress and latent guilt, Dumbledore had formed a habit of consuming large quantities of laced-lemon drops during rough times. Often infused with Essence of Calming, the candies served to clear his head to ensure he made rational decisions when the people needed him. Powerful as he was, as they approached that fateful July day, there was a dramatic increase in Death Eater raids. It was all he could do not to collapse in a fatigued pile of tragically clashing robes. As a result, he was making a considerable dent in his lemon drop stores and beginning to feel the effects. </p><p>     Aware that his dependency was boarding on addiction, but without any convenient alternatives, he turned the copious amounts of lemon drops he had been gifted over the years. Hogwarts had recently implemented a grad program that allowed students to return over the summer and further their education in specialized fields. This increased job prospects for Hogwarts alumni tenfold, and in a show of gratitude, they threw him a large party and each gifted him one bag of lemon drops--increasing his store considerably. </p><p>     Had he not already overindulged in laced drops, he may have been concerned about the subtle compulsion placed over the bag that his eyes happened to land on. Unbeknownst to Dumbledore, a Death Eater had imperiod an unsuspecting partygoer and supplied gifted him candies infused with a variety of nasty potions. However, it would be years until Dumbledore's wandering eyes landed on that bag again, and by then, his actions that night would belong set in stone.</p><p>---------------------------------------------</p><p>     That night, as he was judging the two Potter twins, he felt as though he was missing something vital. This feeling was quickly smothered beneath the combined influence of the potions in his system, and he went back to inspecting the two children. Both remarkably similar, he could find no indicators of a battle on their skin. Upon closer scrutinization, he realized what felt so off, he could no longer sense the younger twin's core. The revelation was unnerving, finding nothing where there had been copious amounts just days before. His magick was confused and the potion flowed layers underneath his skin. Though rational thought dictates that magickal exhaustion is a common side effect in children after bouts of extraordinary accidental magick, his muddled and disorganized mind couldn't shake how empty and wrong the younger twin felt, and he instinctively cast him away.</p><p>      Thoroughly unsettled, Dumbledore concluded that Charles Potter was the chosen one, his younger brother turned squib--an unfortunate casualty. With the Potters currently indisposed, he was responsible for the family's well being as a whole. He decided ultimately that in such a perilous time and with few resources available to raise and nurture a squib, that he should be briefly sent away. Dumbledore instructed Hagrid to deliver the child to a orphanage for squibs, and bundled Charles up tight, delivering him temporarily into the care of Mrs. Longbottom. Hagrid, possessing the intellectual equivalent of a hugable pet rock, hadn’t the free will to contest such a decision, and swiftly made his way to the nearest orphanage. Due to mass foreclosures in the war, there were no longer any such institutions in Europe, and he was forced to travel across the Atlantic, landing at a dreadfully dilapidated building in downtown New York.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I am so sorry about not updating. School kept getting in the way, but now that we’re on Thanksgiving break, I should be able to make a bit of progress. Looking back on my first two chapters, I really don’t like how they developed and will be rewriting them to fill some plot holes over the weekend. If you are interested, I should be able to update on school breaks and during the summer. I know that’s not a lot of updates, but I really want to focus on my studies this year. Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A New Beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The orphanage is shut down and Harry is thrown into the foster care system.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Looking back, I had always been a freak. </p><p>Sometimes, when they knew I could hear them, the matrons would whisper to one another--nasty little things full of fear and hate, and after a while, I couldn't help but wonder what was wrong with me. They told me I was too quiet, too sharp. My eyes a tad too bright.</p><p>The other children were wary, but they weren't afraid. They would watch me, eyes wide with quiet intelligence, the kind of watchful intelligence that spoke of cynical paranoia. We were all in the same hopeless situation, abandoned, all alone, with no one to dry your tears. It was a bittersweet sort of desperation.</p><p>There was no kindness--after all, we were each other's competition, but there was an implied sort of respect. We rarely fought, as a result, it was never worth the effort.</p><p>The caretakers disliked all of us, seeming put upon at the idea of basic human compassion, but I was especially dispised. Punishments were severe and liberally applied. The rules changed daily, and it wasn't amiss to suddenly find yourself in the Dark Room when you woke.</p><p>The Dark Room, as we affectionately termed it, was a cold, dark closet on the third floor of the orphanage. The first time was the worst, two nights of steadily building mania, alone with nothing but the shadow under the door for comfort. I can still feel the terror crawling beneath my skin, bubbling and ripping through me. On those days, I couldn't help it. The madness would rise inside of me, and all I could think of was escape, and it just--happened. The door would unlock, maybe splinter--or in one particularly bad run, a matron came and unlocked the door prematurely, tears running down her face. I never learned what happened that time, but after that, they left me relatively alone.</p><p>Though I was spared their ire, the hopefuls suddenly stopped considering me for adoption. I'm sure the matrons said something, because the hopefuls would often reprimand me in the same fashion, contempt in their eyes. One couple, however, didn't look away. Quite the opposite, they looked directly at each and one of us cataloging our skin, seeming to memorize our faces. I felt bare and humiliated, but whatever they saw must have triggered a warning. </p><p>The day after they left, child protective services visited us, asking questions we weren't allowed to answer. Nothing seemed like it would happen, but then someone must have slipped away and shown them the Dark Room and the self inflicted wounds that it induced. Things quickly returned to normal however after a slight reprimand, and CPS decided that they would visit again in the future. </p><p>The punishments only escalated in the months preceding, eventually to senseless abuse. After multiple subsequent reports, we were forcefully removed and place in transition homes. </p><p>My first set of fosters felt the same as the matrons, and while they weren't abusive, I was ostracized. Not being in constant danger, my incidents happened less frequently, and it was a relatively peaceful existence. Being a transition home, however, I was quickly transferred to my first hopeful forever guardians. </p><p>Strictly Catholic, they proclaimed me a worshiper of the devil and did everything within their power to beat the ungodliness out of me. Every incident just escalated the matter, but I couldn't control myself, and it became an automatic defense mechanism. The problem was it wasn't consistent, and every time I blew them across the room or vanished the belt, they would proceed with magnified holy righteousness with me unable to protect myself. They were convinced that it was the demon in me lashing out, deciding to exorcise me and liberate my soul. </p><p>I've repressed most of the experience, but what I do remember was a hazy sort of absolute belief. In those few minutes, I was devoted to a God I didn't understand and begged to be purged of sins I didn't commit. </p><p>The months after, I existed in a hazy sort of shock. Every feeling of impeding freakishness was violently repressed, and I grew into myself, convinced that if I could just <em>stop</em>, then it would all go away. Being invaded and torn apart so intimately scarred something inside of me. Every outstretched hand was reaching for my brow, and I knew that everyone around me could see my filth. I couldn't escape that candlelit room, and the cotton restraints stuck to my wrists. My body shook under the weight of my despair.</p><p>I knew that I couldn't hold myself at bay for long, that I would mess up, and he would be back, with his little black book and his searching hands. That was the one time I reported someone myself. It only took one walk through to convince them of my immediate danger, and I was transferred only a week later. Sometimes, I wish I had stayed. </p><p>My last fosters were the savior type. They were a painfully beautiful couple that wholeheartedly believed in the healing power of love. I knew what I looked like, and I only saw pity in their eyes. When kind words and lavish presents couldn't fix what was broken, they turned to psychiatrists--the best money could buy.</p><p>The first handful wasn't so bad, a few I even trusted, but when months of counseling yielded no results, they decided I was a trouble case, treated with utmost care. That was when they brought me to him. He was acclaimed for his ability to redeem abused children, and my fosters paid a considerable amount to secure the first session. It wasn't long before I realized something was wrong.</p><p>His gaze was tore through me, and his glances lingered uncomfortably long. His touch made my skin crawl and that evening, I begged them not to go back. They insisted that it was my defensive nature rearing its head and that if I just gave him a chance he might finally be the one to cure me. </p><p> It was a few months before the intrusive questions started and not long after that before his hands were all over me, and all I could think about was that rickety old bed, so hungry, so thirsty, so <em>scared</em>, and he was <em>touching</em> me and his hands were dirty, it was <em>so</em> dirty and-------</p><p>I knew begging wouldn't help, and this time, CPS wouldn't believe me. My subconscious immortalization of the exorcism had all but stopped my freakishness, and I realized that for once, I was truly helpless. I was powerless against him. There was no other option. </p><p>I bolted as soon as their backs were turned.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Had to elaborate on his foster years, but next update should cover teen years to the discovery of the wizard of world. Hope you enjoyed.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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